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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24884449">The Subtler Pleasures of a Thoughtful Correction</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaitlinFairchild/pseuds/CaitlinFairchild'>CaitlinFairchild</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Somatic Theory [8]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sherlock (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Aftercare, Anal Sex, BDSM, Corporal Punishment, Dirty Talk, Dom!John, Enthusiastic Consent, Established Relationship, M/M, Master/Slave, Orgasm Control, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Porn with Feelings, Verbal Humiliation, sub!Sherlock</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 00:34:31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>10,668</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24884449</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaitlinFairchild/pseuds/CaitlinFairchild</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The door of their flat thumps shut behind them. John slides the deadbolt home, and for some reason the rasp and click of it is loud in Sherlock’s ears.</p><p>“Turn to face me,” John says in the hallway, his words brooking no dissent.</p><p>Sherlock does. </p><p>John reaches up, tugging Sherlock’s coat free from his shoulders, sliding it down off his arms and tossing it carelessly aside. He places his hand on the centre of Sherlock’s chest, very deliberately, and pushes him slowly but insistently against the wall.</p><p>“Do you know what I have to do?” John asks. His hand anchors Sherlock against the wall, not with force but with undeniable authority, and it makes Sherlock feel like a captured specimen of some sort, pinned and mounted for John’s inspection.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Sherlock Holmes/John Watson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Somatic Theory [8]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/98075</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>64</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>225</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Subtler Pleasures of a Thoughtful Correction</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I am, frankly, every bit as surprised as you are that this series decided to continue.</p><p>I suppose this is my contribution to everyone's continuing mental health. There's not much I can do about the shitshow that is 2020, but I can write 10,000-plus words of Sherlock and John getting freaky behind closed doors so I guess that's what I'll do.</p><p>I'm really happy to add another story this universe. Sometimes the muse just shows up and wants some porn. Don't quite where it will all go yet, I'm going to do some rearranging and minor revising and see where it ends up.</p><p>IF THIS IS YOUR FIRST TIME reading this series, things may make more sense and feel more in-character if you start at the beginning...there is definitely a progression here.</p><p>On the other hand, if you're just here for the porn, well, by all means jump in at the deep end and enjoy!</p><p>This is un-beta'd, all mistakes and typos are mine alone, apologies in advance.</p><p>I'm on Twitter at @CaitlinFandom, on tumblr semi-infrequently at @caitlinfairchildfics, and any questions or extra love can be sent to caitlinfairchild1976@gmail.com.</p><p>Comments and appreciation are like oxygen, and thank you from the bottom of my heart in advance.</p><p>Love and appreciate you all so, so so much. &lt;3</p><p>                                                                   ***</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sherlock knows there’s something he’s not seeing, and it’s driving him absolutely <em>mad</em>.</p><p>Four Savile Row apprentice tailors, all under the age of thirty, have been murdered in their studios, stabbed with their own sewing shears, no sign of struggle, with a note carefully composed left at the scene of each crime. </p><p>The notes themselves are written in a language Sherlock has never before seen, a language that is elaborate, grammatically and syntactically consistent...and utterly invented, looping intricate quasi-pictographs that don’t correspond to the Roman alphabet,or Arabic, or Cyrillic, or Greek.</p><p>Yesterday morning, at the scene of the third homicide, Donovan suggested that perhaps the murderer was a Klingon. Sherlock had literally chased her from the room.</p><p>And now there is a fourth, and despite the plethora of physical evidence it’s not adding up the way it should and despite John holding firm on eating and sleeping (he insists it helps, that it makes Sherlock work better, and John is always right so Sherlock complies, but right now he’s really starting to question) Sherlock is feeling the stress, his nerves irritated and stretched thin.</p><p>John is in his usual place, hovering just half a step behind Sherlock’s left side. Sherlock adores him, always, but adoration doesn’t mean perfect harmony, now does it, and while Sherlock knows it’s very unfair of him, the truth is John is definitely part of the room-wide Field of Irritation right this moment.</p><p>He suspects the feeling is probably very mutual.</p><p>“Another fake language note,” John murmurs archly, peering around his elbow. “Fabricated out of whole cloth, you could say.” </p><p>Sherlock is so not in the mood, he’s about to <em>explode</em> with how not in the mood he is at this moment. John can’t see his face, so Sherlock indulges himself in an extravagantly exasperated eye roll. Of all the things that would add to his general annoyance... </p><p>Sherlock shakes his head. “Not the time for puns, John, so do shut up.” </p><p>He reconsiders his words just long enough to add a barely-civil “...please” at the end of the sentence.</p><p>John lets out a slightly pained exhale, but he does as Sherlock requests and declines further comment.</p><p>To be honest, Sherlock’s irritation is not really about John’s plebeian tastes in humour. Sherlock’s frustration is with himself and it is growing, a palpable sensation blooming in his chest as he gazes down at another dead body who should absolutely not be dead on this ordinary Tuesday morning.</p><p>This should be <em>easy</em>. </p><p>The four notes are identical in every way visible to the naked eye. Whatever they say, apparently, it bears repeating four times. The author of the notes is a man… (definitely a man, right handed, late thirties, dropped out of Uni before his baccalaureate) who wants to be caught. And Sherlock should have made good on the man’s wish <em>hours</em> ago.</p><p>Sherlock sinks down, squatting on his heels as he looks over the latest sprawled corpse, using his magnifier to pore over the note tacked to the lapel of the victim’s bespoke suit with a glass-headed sewing pin. </p><p>He takes his time, ignoring how everyone in the room is waiting on him to do their jobs for them yet again, make some kind of brilliant pronouncement that will let them mark another win and pack in early for the day.</p><p>His neck and shoulders are beginning to burn from his uncomfortable position. He ignores it.</p><p>Lestrade is on the other side of the dead man, arms crossed as he watches Sherlock work.</p><p>“It’s identical to every other note,” he remarks, beginning as he always does by stating the painfully obvious. “Written on lightweight tracing paper, similar to but different from the pattern paper used by the tailor. The ink is blue biro, cheap, the kind of pen found in a million different places, so exceedingly difficult to trace. Exact same message on each. Problem is, the message is absolute gibberish.”</p><p>“It’s not gibberish,” Sherlock says, and he’s said it before. He and Lestrade have had this entire conversation before, and more than once. “It means something.”</p><p>“But what if it doesn’t?” John asks. “What if it’s a deliberate red herring?”</p><p>Sherlock bites back his rising and useless irritation. He should have solved this <em>days</em> ago, before three more people had to die because of his thick-headed stupidity. “What’s the point of leaving notes if they don’t mean anything? Even if the words themselves are meaningless, the very act of leaving notes means the killer is communicating --”</p><p>“That’s what I’m trying to say,” John breaks in. “If the words themselves are identical, then the message is in the details. The pen, the paper.’</p><p>“Obviously,” Sherlock snaps. “Thank you for your input, John, but I figured that out several geologic ages ago.”</p><p>“I was just trying to --”</p><p>Sherlock’s fraying patience snaps. </p><p>"Honestly, John, if I wanted a companion that chattered incessant stupid nonsense I would have bought a parrot, so for the last time, will you do the entire room a favour and <em>shut up</em>.”</p><p>As soon as the words leave Sherlock’s mouth he knows he has mis-stepped, badly.</p><p>Every head in the room -- Lestrade, Donovan, the two newish forensic techs hovering uncertainly at the doorway -- swivels towards Sherlock and John in silent, not-exactly-covert surprise.</p><p>Even if the reason why isn’t common knowledge (though Sherlock suspects Lestrade sees more than he is letting on), everyone at the Yard knows full well that while Sherlock will casually slice apart any other human who dares cross his path, he doesn’t speak to John Watson like that, not anymore.</p><p>And worse than that, Sherlock knows that calling John <em>stupid</em>, even in a moment of thoughtless snappishness, is something John will absolutely not tolerate.</p><p>But he also knows John won't have it out with him here, in public. John is singularly protective of Sherlock's reputation and public image and he would never, ever chastise or even criticise him in front of others, especially not London’s finest. </p><p>But that, of course, does not mean that Sherlock is going to get away with this kind of behaviour, oh, most certainly not.</p><p>Sherlock can feel John’s disapproving glare, weighing heavy on the back of his neck. He is almost too afraid to look up, but he needs to save face in front of their assembled audience so he takes a breath, raises his head to look at John.</p><p>John is smiling at him, but it’s not a kind or loving smile. It’s a fierce, hard smile full of terrifying promise, a smile that says volumes. It says <em>Now is not the time, my love, but later there will be hell to pay, and the bill is going to cost you dearly.</em></p><p>“As you wish,” is all John says aloud, his voice gone bland to the point of colourlessness, even as his eyes spark blue fire and a pink flush tinges his cheeks. He's the very picture of calm as he waves a hand at Sherlock. “My apologies. Do carry on.”</p><p>Sherlock swallows down the sudden but so-familiar bloom of fear and excitement leaping up into his chest, bright and hot. Now is not the time. He shakes it off, exhaling through his nose as he mentally boxes his reactions up, walls it off before his sympathetic nervous system catches fire and causes his body to visibly, embarrassingly react.</p><p>He glances around, just momentarily, at the other individuals in the room. They are suddenly all terribly busy, far too busy to look directly at Sherlock or John.</p><p>“Thank you,” Sherlock says to John, voice tight and eyes narrowed, attempting a facsimile of his usual haughty condescension.</p><p>John doesn’t answer with words, but his hard, flinty gaze tells Sherlock he isn’t fooled, not one single bit.</p><p>Heart hammering despite his own best efforts, Sherlock bends again to his work.</p><p>***</p><p>Despite Sherlock’s frustration as his own perceived shortcomings, it all came together perfectly in the end, as it so often does. The perpetrator was arrested without incident at his place of lodging, the cramped and overpriced boutique hotel that uses unique Indonesian-made ballpoint pens, the key detail Sherlock needed to pull it all together after four days of floundering and dead ends.</p><p>“Let’s walk home,” John says, out on the pavement in front of the hotel, mere blocks from Baker Street. “It’s not very far, and it’s a lovely night.”</p><p>They’re alone now, for the first time all day, and John's words are not a request. </p><p>Sherlock has put aside thoughts of their interaction this morning, and the repercussions that await him, for the entire day while he focused all of his energy on solving the case. </p><p>Now, though. The case is over, wrapped up successfully, no loose ends to tug at his attention, and thanks to all that tiresome eating and sleeping he’s not even distracted by exhaustion. There’s nothing in between him and his thoughts, and on top of all that John is beside him radiating a dangerous sort of frequency Sherlock recognizes it all too well.</p><p>In other words, he knows he’s absolutely in for it, and that knowledge itself is a delightful sort of anxiety, bubbling just under his skin.</p><p>Sherlock wraps his coat tighter against the shivers racing down in spine as they walk in silence. It’s late on a Tuesday evening, and even in the city there are remarkably few cars or pedestrians out at this hour.</p><p>The silence stretches tight between them, and Sherlock suddenly finds the tension of it almost unbearable.</p><p>“John, I --"</p><p>John stops in his tracks, turns to face him.</p><p>“No,” he says flatly. “You are not talking right now. In fact, you are not talking again until I tell you to. Do you understand me?”</p><p>Sherlock swallows, exhales. “Yes.”</p><p>John steps closer, looking up at him. His eyes have gone dark, chips of cool slate under starlight, and something in that look makes Sherlock feel vertiginous, as though somehow he’s the one looking up at John.</p><p>John reaches up, cups the side of Sherlock’s face with deceptively gentle fingers. </p><p>“You know what’s coming,” he says, “and you know you deserve it, so you can just chew on that for a bit. But you will do so in <em>silence</em>, are we absolutely clear?”</p><p>Sherlock closes his eyes as a spike of almost-fear and shocking arousal lances through his belly. He nods, then closes his eyes and turning his head just slightly, pushing his cheek into John’s hand, instinctively seeking reassurance.</p><p>“No,” John says, soft but not kind, taking his hand away from Sherlock’s skin. “Not until you’ve been put right.”</p><p>He strides purposefully away from Sherlock. Sherlock follows.</p><p>***</p><p>The door of their flat thumps shut behind them. John slides the deadbolt home, and for some reason the rasp and click of it is loud in Sherlock’s ears.</p><p>“Turn to face me,” John says in the hallway, his words brooking no dissent.</p><p>Sherlock does. </p><p>John reaches up, tugging Sherlock’s coat free from his shoulders, sliding it down off his arms and tossing it carelessly aside. He places his hand on the centre of Sherlock’s chest, very deliberately, and pushes him slowly but insistently against the wall.</p><p>“Do you know what I have to do?” John asks. His hand anchors Sherlock against the wall, not with force but with undeniable authority, and it makes Sherlock feel like a captured specimen of some sort, pinned and mounted for John’s inspection.</p><p>(He finds that thought weirdly, inexplicably arousing. Which means he’s at the point on this escalating staircase of carnal lust where he finds almost anything John says and does inexplicably arousing, and for the ten thousandth time in his life he marvels at the absolute improbability of his life now, that this complex and marvelous force of nature named John Watson found his way to him, found him worthwhile, found him deserving of his care and love.)</p><p>John is looking at him expectantly, and Sherlock discovers that while chasing his briefly meandering thoughts he's come perilously close to losing the thread of the current moment and getting himself into that much more trouble.</p><p>He licks his lips, nods assent.</p><p>John hand presses just a fraction harder. “Use your words, Sherlock.”</p><p>“Yes,” Sherlock says, the word thick in his throat. “I know what you have to do.”</p><p>“This is where you get to choose,” John says. “If you want to safeword, we can deal with all of this tomorrow in a different way and that’s absolutely okay. It’s entirely up to you. Do you understand?”</p><p>“I do.”</p><p>John nods, his eyes serious. "Make your choice, Sherlock.”</p><p>Sherlock looks down at John’s hand over his heart, and he knows with crystal clarity the decision he will always make. </p><p>“I choose this,” he says, low and rough. “Freely. I choose this.”</p><p>John’s stony expression doesn’t soften, but it shifts, just slightly.</p><p>“Go on then,” John says. “Get cleaned up. I’ll be in the bedroom.” He takes his hand away from Sherlock’s chest, unpinning him, releasing him.</p><p>Sherlock feels fragile, somehow, unmoored, dangerously adrift without that steadying hand. </p><p>He turns away without another word to do as John says, in order to return to his touch as quickly as possible.</p><p>***</p><p>In the ensuite Sherlock strips and showers, thorough and efficient, deliberately not thinking about anything at all and definitely not lingering on any one area of his body.</p><p>(His cock, however, is a stupid foolish appendage that knows what it likes and doesn’t seem to much care what the rest of him thinks, staying resolutely hard and eager despite Sherlock’s best attempts to get his sympathetic nervous system under some semblance of control.)</p><p>Neurotransmitters already hopelessly scrambled, Sherlock resolutely refuses to wonder what John is doing in their bedroom, what tools and implements he’s considering, what toys and accessories he’s pulling from the wooden chest kept beneath their bed.</p><p>Of course, there are levels of thought here, both supra- and sub-conscious, and one of those deeper levels, he’s not wondering about what John has planned because he already knows. Sherlock is fully aware what this level of willful disrespect earns him, and it’s something straightforward, simpler and far more terrifying than any of their baroque and overwrought catalog-ordered toys.</p><p>And Sherlock knows he deserves it. He treated John badly in public, lashed out thoughtlessly in his own irritation. In general, John cheerfully puts up with the rougher edges of Sherlock'a personality, his tendency to sarcasm and unintentional thoughtlessness, but since the changes in their private relationship have taken hold John has come to expect a certain baseline of respect, an expectation Sherlock has truly worked hard to uphold.</p><p>Sherlock knows he failed to live up to John’s expectations today. John tolerates a lot, probably far too much, but he will not tolerate Sherlock treating him with deliberate disrespect in front of others. Nor should he.</p><p>He pulls himself out of his reverie with a shake of his head. Enough. He’s kept John waiting.</p><p>He turns off the taps and steps out of the shower, grabbing a folded towel from the shelf and drying his skin and hair thoroughly before draping the towel across the bar on the back of the door. Briefly, he considers putting on the dressing gown hanging on the back of the bathroom door but decides that there is no point to it whatsoever, he’s sure to be divested of any scrap of clothing soon enough. </p><p>Sherlock swallows down a spike of nerves and reflexive embarrassment -- this is always the hardest part, the part before he breaks down and lets go, the part where he feels awkward and self-conscious and ridiculous -- and steps out of the ensuite into the bedroom, naked as the day he was born.</p><p>Only the lamp next to the bed is on, casting a pool of gentle yellow light, leaving the corners of the room in shadow.</p><p>John is sitting on the edge of the bed, in the circle of lamplight. They had left it unmade this morning, and John has stripped off the silk coverlet and top sheet and tossed them carelessly aside, leaving only the fitted sheet and pillows.</p><p>There are no toys on the bed, no rope or cuffs or spreader bars, no crop or paddle. Just John, waiting for him, endlessly patient. He’s taken off his shoes and socks, but otherwise remains fully dressed.</p><p>John looks up at Sherlock when he enters, face calm and impassive.</p><p>“Still sure?” he asks. His affect is calm and even, giving nothing away, but Sherlock sees the truth in John’s eyes as he rakes over Sherlock’s body, looking at him as if he’d never seen him naked before.</p><p>The fact that John still looks at him like that even after everything they’ve seen of each other and done to each other, still looks at him as though he wants to <em>eat him alive -- </em>it sparks something low in Sherlock’s belly, a tight hot feeling of something base and obscene and <em>wanting</em>.</p><p>He wants, full stop. Endlessly, helplessly. When it comes to John, he always, always wants. And he’s willing to perform, to please, to do whatever it takes to get what he wants.</p><p>John is looking at him, patient but expectant.</p><p>“Yes, John,” he replies, sure of his answer, a shorthand for the deeply coded ritual between them.</p><p>John nods. “Get your collar and leash.”</p><p>Sherlock does so, removing the collar and leash from the carved teakwood box on top of the dresser and bringing them to where John is sitting. He sinks to his knees before being told, extending the collar towards John as he does so, feeling foolish and exquisitely self-aware, but still determined to please John by performing his role properly.</p><p>John takes them from his chilly fingers, fastens the collar deftly around his neck. Sherlock looks at the floor, still feeling awkward, not quite ready to make eye contact.</p><p>“You’re hoping for praise,” John says, “but you’re not going to get it, not for playing at obedience to try and get out of trouble.” He leans forward, taps the side of Sherlock’s head.</p><p>“You’re up here in your head, aren’t you? Acting out your role. That’s not how things are going to go tonight, my dear.” He places two fingers under Sherlock’s chin, tipping his head up.</p><p>“Look at me, Sherlock.”</p><p>Feeling caught out, Sherlock obeys, raising his eyes to meet John’s.</p><p>John slaps him hard, across his right cheekbone. “Stop. Fucking. Shamming.” </p><p><em>How does he know?</em> Sherlock wonders briefly, then John slaps him again, a brilliant starburst of pain, making his eyes water. “No playacting at this.” He grabs Sherlock’s face and kisses him, hot and demanding, tongue invading his mouth for a brief moment before pulling away. </p><p>“I don’t want your bullshit, I don’t want games.” John slaps him again, right-handed this time, hard enough to rock Sherlock’s head back. “I want you. Give me <em>you</em>.”</p><p>John’s instincts in this are unerring and it’s working, the pain and violence opening a clean sharp cut in Sherlock’s psyche, draining the colour and noise out of his world, leaving him with gorgeous dark-edged simplicity.</p><p>Sherlock could almost cry in gratitude and relief.</p><p>“That’s it, pet.” John’s voice is gentler now but no less demanding, iron wrapped in velvet as the fingers of his hand slide into the curls at the back of Sherlock’s neck, anchoring him, holding him tight. “Feel your body, your knees on the hard floor, the air on your skin. This is who you really are. Just accept it. Accept it and let it go.”</p><p>John’s murmured words are soothing him, cooling balm alongside the pain, pushing Sherlock down deeper into his body, the sensations and feelings and needs of his flesh creating a cocoon around him as his breathing slows and evens.</p><p>“That’s the problem,” John says. “I see it now. You’ve gotten too out of hand, you’ve forgotten who you are and where you belong. Haven’t you?”</p><p>“Yes, John,” Sherlock says, and he can hear the shift in his own voice. He feels quieter, more settled in his skin, accepting John’s control of him as right and good.</p><p>“You need me to keep you in line, and I’ve clearly been far too lenient.” John clicks the lead onto the collar and wraps the length of braided leather around his fist, bringing Sherlock up short, the tension just enough to barely press into his windpipe. “What do you need from me, pet?”</p><p>This isn’t the first time they’ve traveled down this road, and Sherlock knows precisely the answer expected of him.</p><p>“I need correction,” he says, barely above a whisper, the words sending a hot flare of shamed arousal across his skin.</p><p> “And why is that?”</p><p>“Because I...was disrespectful,” he says, the words coming out restricted and breathy. “I was rude and insulting to you in public.” Sherlock’s head is starting to swim as he dives deeper, the dark waters closing in over his head. He closes his eyes.</p><p>John gives a short, sharp tug on the lead. “Eyes open, pet.”</p><p>Sherlock opens his eyes and looks into John’s, sees how John is sinking down as well, losing and finding himself under the dark waves, his breath coming just slightly faster as he grips Sherlock’s leash tightly in his hand. </p><p>“You insulted me,” John tells him, “and blatantly disrespected me in front of others. You know I don’t mind a bit of snippiness or sarcasm, there is a lot I let slide, but the way you behaved towards me today was <em>not acceptable</em>. Do you understand?”</p><p>John tightens the leash just a little. The tension of the collar presses against Sherlock’s trachea, almost but not quite restricting his airflow, a wordless reminder of the power John holds over him.</p><p>John’s so good at this, he’s <em>brilliant</em> at this, easing them down into the strange and private world they share, his control absolute but still so caring, so careful. He’s not using the filthy words or degrading names that make them both so aroused, because they’re not yet ready; the transition from their normal life to this other place is a tricky navigation, but John steers them so carefully into the deeper waters, and even when he’s sharp and angry he’s still so loving, so <em>good</em>, and Sherlock is so grateful to him, so dependent on his strength and his care. </p><p>In this shifted headspace, the memory of his earlier poor behaviour stings Sherlock deeply, makes him feel ungrateful and ashamed. He drops his head.</p><p>“I understand,” Sherlock says to the floor, truly contrite. “I’m sorry, John.”</p><p>John gives a low, raspy laugh, rich and dark with promise. “You will be much sorrier before we’re done, my love.” He rises, making the crotch of his jeans level with Sherlock’s face. “Go on, then. You know what to do. Hands behind your back, and be quick.”</p><p>Sherlock breathes out, quiets the last trace of clamour in his mind, and obeys without question.</p><p>John’s belt is soft, tobacco-brown calf leather, handmade and expensive but worn, probably a decade old. Using his teeth, Sherlock carefully pulls the free end out of the front loop of John’s jeans, then moves his attention to the section of the belt held fast by the loop, tugging with his teeth and lifting the loosened strip of leather away from the holding pin by using his tongue for leverage.</p><p>John is motionless, his breathing even, but under Sherlock’s cheek he can feel how rock hard he already is, his cock pushing against the fabric that constrains him; he can feel how his breath is coming in shorter and deeper breaths, almost panting, and he knows that John is just as caught up, just as profoundly entangled and affected as Sherlock is. The awareness is freeing, somehow, and deeply comforting.</p><p>(He’s not alone. When he exists in this place, John will always be here with him, and he’s not alone. Just that knowledge is almost enough to make him weep with gratitude for the man standing in front of him.)</p><p>John watches Sherlock complete his task, his stance a modified parade rest, hands behind his back, not stroking Sherlock’s hair or murmuring encouragements as he usually does but just observing in silence, watching him closely. Sherlock feels the weight of John’s gaze on him as he completes his task, pulling the last bit of the belt free of the buckle.</p><p>His work complete, Sherlock pulls back slightly, resting his weight on his heels, waiting in quiet acceptance of whatever is to happen next.</p><p>The room is silent, save for their breathing.</p><p>John uses both hands to slide his belt free from the loops of his worn jeans. He wraps it around his hand contemplatively, and Sherlock feels a frisson of something very much like fear break through his calm acceptance, sparking and shivering down his spine, prickles of heat under his cooling skin.</p><p>For the belt is very serious business, indeed.</p><p>When their private pastimes involve the more ornate and ritualised trappings of BDSM, Sherlock knows he still holds the majority of control over their exchange of power. But in the sessions when John decides Sherlock is in need of the belt, there is no doubt at all over who is in control of the situation, on every level and in every detail. And it’s not Sherlock.</p><p>John has never given Sherlock more than he can handle, and Sherlock knows that he never will, but the belt is absolutely for giving Sherlock what he <em>deserves</em>, which is in and of itself a far different proposition.</p><p>The belt is punishment, of a sort that speaks to something that’s grown far darker and more primal between them, cuts to the very heart of who holds truly power over whom in this relationship.</p><p>It terrifies Sherlock to his very core, but it’s not because he’s afraid of John. He’s never been afraid of John, not ever in his life. What terrifies Sherlock is how much he likes it, likes John’s assertive, unquestioned domination over him in every word and deed , likes how it feels to truly submit to him, to give up that last measure of control over himself and just <em>take</em> whatever John sees fit to give him.</p><p>Sherlock’s own blood pounds loud in his ears as he watches John turn the thick strip of worn leather in his hands, doubling it over his fist then straightening it. </p><p>He raises his eyes and looks at Sherlock. </p><p>Sherlock sees something dark and feral there, emerging from the depths of John’s deep blue eyes. It makes him feel pinned down, helpless already under that unflinching gaze. </p><p>He likes it. </p><p>No. </p><p>God help him, he <em>loves</em> it.</p><p>Sherlock swallows down the whimper rising in his throat, willing himself into blank, patient stillness.</p><p>John seems to approve of what he sees, giving a nod before placing the belt at the foot of the mattress and picking up the leash.</p><p>“Up on the bed, pet. Hands and knees, facing the headboard.”</p><p>Sherlock scrambles up onto the bed from his kneeling position the floor, eager to show his obedience, knees cracking, his body ungainly and awkward and his mind blessedly past caring. </p><p>“Hands up here,” John murmurs, arranging Sherlock as he desires.</p><p>He places Sherlock’s hands on the top rail of the headboard, a little more than shoulder-width apart, before nudgings his knees slightly apart as well. He takes a moment to run his fingers appreciatively across the back of Sherlock’s leg, the curve of his arse, the expanse of his flank. The touch makes Sherlock shiver.</p><p>“I thought about restraining you,” John says, low and quiet, his voice a honeyed purr. “The spreader bars, the cuffs, the whole kit. But then I decided that’s not what I want from you tonight.” He smacks him unexpectedly on the round swell of his right arse cheek, not hard but sharp and stinging. Sherlock gasps at the sting of it, bright and sharp. </p><p>“Tell me what I want from you,” John demands.</p><p>Sherlock grips the headboard harder. “Obedience,” he breathes.</p><p>“Clever pet,” John murmurs approvingly. “I don’t want to tie you down for your punishment. I want you to take it willingly.” Gentle fingers stroke his hair. “Are you willing?”</p><p>“Yes, John.”</p><p>“Tell me your colours.”</p><p>“Red. Amber. Green.”</p><p>"What’s your colour right now?"</p><p>“Green.”</p><p>“Good boy,” John murmurs with approval. His fingers tighten in Sherlock’s hair as John kisses him once, hard and demanding, before turning away. He picks up the leash, pulls Sherlock’s mouth open roughly and shoves the looped handle of the leash between his teeth.</p><p>“Something to shut that infernal mouth up,” he purrs. “If you drop that, or let go of the headboard, even once, we will start over from the beginning. Understand?”</p><p>Sherlock can feel how soon his jaw will ache with the effort of holding the leather between his jaws. He hates having things placed in his mouth, finds it uniquely, piercingly shameful; as the burning humiliation sings through his veins, the perverse alchemy works its magic, transforming shame and embarrassment into scorching, wanton arousal.</p><p>John yanks his hair impatiently. “Answer me, slut.”</p><p>A violent shiver ripples through Sherlock’s body.</p><p>“Yes, John.” Sherlock struggles to speak around the leather in his mouth, his words muffled to a raspy lisping croak, the spit already beginning to bubble at the corners of his lips, soon to drip helplessly down his face. </p><p>John releases his hair. Sherlock can hear as he hurriedly strips off his jumper and vest, tosses them carelessly into the side chair. Closing his eyes, he can easily picture how John looks now, barefoot and stripped to the waist, but still clad in his snug, worn jeans, how his eyes feast hungrily on Sherlock’s naked and trembling body as he savours the anticipation of the moment. </p><p>John picks up the belt from where it lay next to Sherlock’s feet.</p><p>“You deserve this,” John growls, and his voice, oh, how his voice has changed, gone thicker and rougher, almost feral.</p><p>Sherlock feels the trailing end of the belt against his cool and naked skin as John drags it slowly up his back, to the base of his neck and back down again to his tailbone.</p><p>“You forgot what you are, didn’t you? You forgot you belong to me <em>all the time</em>, and not just when we’re like this. Out there in the world, when you puff yourself up and solve crimes and play at being a proud, arrogant peacock?That happens because I allow it. I will never stand in the way of your work because I love you, and I love to see you being brilliant and using your gorgeous mind to help people. It makes you who you are and I love who you are. But never forget that even while you are out there being Sherlock Fucking Holmes you are still mine, you belong to me always, and you exist out in the world because <em>I allow it.”</em></p><p>His voice is harder now, cutting into him ever deeper, and Sherlock knows John has yielded fully to the darkness, completely given himself over to their game, the change in him is so visceral Sherlock can feel it in his own belly. This John is harsher, colder, relishing the taste of Sherlock’s pain and humiliation. This John is dangerous, and very real, and while all their play reveals him somewhat the belt is different, the belt sets him free, and it terrifies and enraptures Sherlock in equal measure. </p><p>The tongue of leather trails up and down, up and down.</p><p>“I am too lenient with you,” John says. “I permit far too much of your ridiculous behavour to slide because of how much I love you, but I will <em>not</em> allow you to belittle me and call me stupid in front of others. You require a firmer hand, pet, and I’ve been remiss in not correcting your misbehaviour.”</p><p>The gently lapping tongue of leather leaves Sherlock’s spine, and John’s hand twists in his hair, hard, jerking his head roughly back.</p><p>“I will never hit you in anger,” John purrs, bringing his lips right against Sherlock’s ear. “But that doesn’t mean I won’t <em>thoroughly </em>enjoy it.”</p><p>He releases Sherlock’s hair, pushes his head downward.</p><p>“No counting today,” John decides. “We’re done when I say we are.”</p><p>Sherlock tenses, waiting, as John takes a step back and swings.</p><p>He feels the movement of the air a split second before the first blow lands, doubled leather landing hard, directly across the swell of both buttocks. The pain is immediate, a blinding flash of shock and heat. Sherlock cries out, the noise of it wet and muffed by the leash in his mouth.</p><p>Before the cresting pain can recede, John hits him again, lower down across the backs of his thighs. His back shudders and bows, but Sherlock doesn’t let go of the headboard, his knuckles white as he grips the dark brown wood.</p><p>John begins to beat him now in earnest, not holding back, each blow landing true, slash after slash of bright burning on Sherlock’s skin. John is thorough, relentless, but exquisitely careful, not overlapping strokes to avoid splitting his skin, carefully avoiding his spine and kidneys as he works.</p><p>Rather than establish a rhythm, John changes pace and tempo unexpectedly, keeping Sherlock unable to anticipate when the next stroke will land. He slows down, drawing out the moments between blows, prolonging the uncertain torture of waiting. He then speeds up, landing two or three in quick succession to keep Sherlock off-base, unable to predict where or when the next strip of fire will alight on his skin.</p><p>Time itself seems to dissolve, somehow, in the firestorm of light and heat and pain.</p><p>Sherlock feels like his brain has been set alight as well, each biting stripe of searing hot-cold sparking off another feedback loop of pain and endorphin release. His very sense of self begins to melt away, crumbling into ash as he slips into the darkest depths of subspace, the smell and taste of leather filling his mouth and nose as his jaw aches, saliva spilling shameful and messy down his chin, a reminder of why he deserves this, deserves to be punished, deserves to be whipped like a dumb disobedient animal --</p><p>He whimpers, pitifully, low in his throat.</p><p>“I want to hear you,” John growls. “I know what you like, you greedy little pain slut. Let me hear what it feels like when I hurt you.”</p><p>Sherlock obeys, howling out his pain behind his clamped teeth as spit bubbles from his mouth, nose running unchecked and tears dripping freely from his eyes.</p><p>“I love when you’re like this,” John rasps, his voice gone raw and ragged, his own demons set loose and running free. “When you’re crying from the pain, shivering and sweating, raw and open down to your very bones. When I take you apart like this I can see all of you, I can see and feel everything you are. You’re split wide open and you can’t hide from me like this, everything inside of you belongs to me and I love it. <em>I love it</em>.”</p><p>John winds up and hits him again.</p><p>Sherlock can’t do anything but take it, clutching the dark wood of the headboard as he holds on for dear life, shuddering under each blow, offering up his body to John as sacrifice, as tribute, as atonement.</p><p>“You’re so perfect like this.” John’s close to babbling now, endearments and filth spilling from his mouth almost unaware. “Dirty pain slut, wanting it so badly, you want me to stop but you don’t,you’re so eager for it, so greedy for it. Look at how you take it from, me, take it all and want even more, it’s never enough, is it, you insatiable <em>whore</em>--”</p><p>John is panting heavily now, from arousal as much as exertion as he swings the belt over and over, the blows raining down one after another, blending together in an endless, white-hot firestorm.</p><p>Sherlock screams, then, as the pain threatens to overwhelm him, his back and thighs a solid sheet of agony, he’s so close to losing control, to letting go, collapsing and safewording, <em>redredred</em> but he won’t, <em>he won’t, </em>hisfingers scrabbling against the headboard as he struggles to stay still, to be good, to obey --</p><p>John lands three more hard blows in quick succession before making a strangled noise, tossing the belt aside and climbing up onto the bed on his knees. He pulls the sodden leash from Sherlock’s mouth, wipes saliva and snot and tears aside, pressing kissed to his hair, his cheek, his wet lips. </p><p>Sherlock’s fingers are glued to the headboard as his entire body shakes, guttural whimpers still spilling from his mouth.</p><p>“Shhh, it’s all over,” John breathes, kissing him. “We’re done, sweet pet, we’re done, it’s all over, you did so well.”</p><p>Sherlock’s entire body is shivering uncontrollably. He doesn’t know if he’s burning hot or freezing cold, his voluntary muscle control is on the verge of going offline completely, and he can’t make his fingers release the top of the wooden rail.</p><p>“Let go, pet, I've got you.” John gently pries Sherlock’s fingers off of the headboard, half- catching him before he collapses, arranging him carefully onto his right side. “There you go, shhh, baby, you did so well, I’m so proud of you.” The cool mouth of a water bottle is pressed to Sherlock’s lips. “Drink some of this.” </p><p>He drinks in grateful, imprecise gulps, half the water spilling over, adding to the general mess of his face. John caps the bottle and tosses it aside before swiping at Sherlock’s face with his hand, more smearing it all around than anything else. “Dirty boy, my goodness,” he murmurs as he kisses Sherlock’s temple, presses his lips into tangled curls as he arranges himself behind Sherlock’s still-shaking body, stroking his hair. </p><p>Sherlock is still on fire, inside and out, tears still spilling from his eyes. His back, arse and thighs are burning, and the heat inside him is no better, the tension and arousal deep and aching hot in his pelvis, his cock still defiantly hard and his bollocks full and desperate for release.</p><p>Sometimes -- not often, but <em>sometimes</em> -- when Sherlock has been particularly ill-behaved, John leaves him like this, punished and hurting but also wanting and unsatisfied. John is never cruel, always cares for him, always soothes his wounds and welts, brings him cool water and compresses and salve, but he has a wide and dark sadistic streak that is sometimes only satisfied by leaving Sherlock hollow and desperate after, his cock untouched and his arse unfilled as further punishment. </p><p>(One night, a particularly peeved John cuffed him and tied him up, after, making Sherlock watch him as he got himself off just inches away, kneeling on the bed in front of Sherlock, fist pumping his own cock, telling Sherlock how good it felt, coming all over Sherlock’s face even as he wept and begged for John to touch him, <em>oh God please John I’ll do anything, </em>then untied him and took himself out to sleep on the sofa, leaving Sherlock alone all night long with strict instructions to not even <em>think</em> about touching his own cock. The next morning’s forgiveness had been messy and spectacular, but Sherlock still treasures the memory of that long tormented night, the tender brutal ache of it like a bruise that goes all the way down to the bone. <em>)</em></p><p>Just the fleeting memory of that night makes Sherlock shudder all over with another wave of perverse, humiliated arousal. His straining and purpling cock twitches, dribbling out a pulse of clear fluid.</p><p>“Look at you,” John breathes, entranced. “You get off on this so much, don’t you? You’re an absolutely filthy pain slut. You’re a whore for it. You’re amazing.” He traces slow careful fingers down the crest of Sherlock’s hip, down into the crease of his groin, achingly close to his prick but not actually touching it. “This is the real punishment,” he murmurs,”isn’t it? You’re wondering if I’m going to leave you like this, desperate and aching for my cock.”</p><p>Sherlock can’t stop the whimper, just one, a noise that sounds almost like a sob, but he doesn’t dare move. He knows that if he moves, if he flexes his hips, if he asks for it before John thinks he should, John may very well decide to deny him what he needs so desperately. He will do whatever John wishes, so he wills his traitorous, needy body into obedient stillness.</p><p>“I should,” John continues, musing aloud. “I should. You don’t deserve to come after the way you behaved, and I fucking love keeping you like this. Filthy shameless whore, legs open and your prick rock-hard, begging to be properly fucked after your beating. Jesus Christ, you’re a work of art.” </p><p>His fingers skate up to Sherlock’s trembling belly, in between his pectorals. His finger and thumb find the titanium barbell in his left nipple, circling and flicking, little silver shivers of pleasure that make Sherlock whine and arch.</p><p>“Say you’re sorry for being bad,” he rasps in Sherlock’s ear as his fingers pinch and twist at his nipple.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” Sherlock gasps, meaning it, desperate for forgiveness. “Please, John. I’m so sorry.”</p><p>“Will you be good for me?”</p><p>“I’ll be good. I’ll be so good for you. Please. I’ll be so good.”</p><p>“My sweet boy,” John sighs. ‘My pretty creature. I can’t resist you like this.” Sherlock feels John unbutton and unzip, then his bare cock is pushing hard against the cleft of his arse, the roughness of the denim like sandpaper against his abused skin. “Is this what you need?”</p><p>“Yes, John, Oh, God, yes, <em>please</em>.”</p><p>John brings his hand up to Sherlock’s mouth, shoves all four fingers in between his lips, moves them in and out in vulgar counterpoint to the flex of his hips. Sherlock sucks at them eagerly, relishing the sensation of his mouth being invaded, being filled.</p><p>“I love denying you,” John rasps softly, “but I also hate it, because then I have to deny myself the very best part...” He pulls his fingers out of Sherlock ‘s mouth, pushes his wet hand into the cleft of his arse, smearing wetness there. “After I beat you properly, after I’ve taken you apart and made you scream, the best part is when you’re shaking and exhausted and hurting and I get to fuck you like that. That’s my favourite thing in the whole goddamn world.” He slips a wet finger easily into Sherlock’s hole, making him arch and gasp at the breach. “This hot little hole, just aching to be fucked. It belongs to me. Say it.”</p><p>“It belongs to you,” Sherlock says.</p><p>"What belongs to me?”</p><p>“My arse,” Sherlock breathes, voice barely a whisper, burning with need and shame. “My arsehole. It’s yours. It’s --” he gasps as John pushes in and twists <em>just right</em>, so intimately familiar with Sherlock's body that he knows exactly where and how to touch him. His finger just barely brushes the edge of Sherlock's prostate, lighting sparks of pleasure deep in his pelvis. “Yours. All yours. Please, just-”</p><p>“Tell me, whore. Tell me what you want.”</p><p>“I want you to fuck me,” he gasps, pleading. “Please, <em>please</em> just fuck me, God, I need you to fuck me.”</p><p>John pulls his fingers out and away briefly, the momentary loss of contact making feel Sherlock bereft and empty. The burst of cooler air lights Sherlock’s inflamed flesh anew as John pulls open the bedside table drawer and rummages inside, locates his quarry.</p><p>He flicks the cap one-handed, expertly, and it’s only a moment before he’s slicking himself, taking himself in hand.</p><p>“I was going to fuck you with just spit,” he tells Sherlock, his voice a ragged rasp. “But no more punishment tonight. You’re being such a good little slut for me, I’m going spoil you properly, make you feel so good, make you come so hard.” He lines himself up, pushes in with a single long, slow slide. Sherlock gives a bitten-off moan, spine arching at the familiar, singular sensation.</p><p>John growls low in his throat.“Be grateful, whore. Say thank you.”</p><p>“Thank you,” Sherlock gasps. “Oh thank you, thank you for fucking me."</p><p>John pulls out almost all the way, wraps his hand around Sherlock’s left leg, raising it up slightly as he pushes back in. Sherlock knows he’s watching himself, watching how his cock sink into Sherlock’ arse as he fucks him.</p><p>“That’s it,” he breathes, “Look at how you take it. Such a good little fucktoy, look how well I’ve trained you to take my cock.”</p><p>It’s true. It still stretches and burns in the first moment when John enters him, but Sherlock’s body yields to him readily now, with minimal preparation, accustomed to frequent and enthusiastic use. He welcomes the hot push of John inside him, revels in the feeling of opening to him so easily. He is everything John says he is, every word of it true, he is nothing more than a submissive and willing piece of flesh who revels in being taken bodily, being <em>claimed</em>, marked and hurt and fucked and used in whatever manner John pleases.</p><p>And what pleases John now, in this moment, is to bring Sherlock pleasure after his punishment, fucking him with careful aching slowness. He angles himself just a little bit shallower than usual in order to press against Sherlock’s prostate with every stroke, the silver sparkling pleasure of it a counterpoint to the insistent burning of his back and thighs and especially where the rough denim still rubs against him, John still clothed against Sherlock’s own shivering nakedness.</p><p>John’s cock is hot and hard and maddening, his angle and controlled thrust teasing and denying him, giving him almost but just not quite enough stimulation to bring him to orgasm. John is focused and relentless in his iron self-control, denying himself his full pleasure to continue Sherlock’s cruel torment. </p><p>Sherlock moans, unheeding, shivers of need and frustration coursing under his skin.</p><p>John’s hand roams across Sherlock’s body, playing with his nipples, skating across his belly, dipping down to cup his bollocks and brush against the underside of his cock in a maddening almost-caress.</p><p>“Tell me it feels good, slut.”</p><p>“It feels so good,” Sherlock gasps in between low, bitten-off moans.“You feel so good in me.”</p><p>“Say my name,” John says. “I love the way you say my name when I’m fucking you.”</p><p>“John. God, <em>fuck</em>. John.”</p><p>“You’re so beautiful, so perfect right now. You’re so good for me.” John's fingers brush down the length of his cock, a maddening feather-light tease. Should I reward my good little whore?”</p><p>“Yes,” Sherlock gasps, wrecked and desperate.</p><p>“Should I make you come?”</p><p>“Please, God, John, make me come, I promise, I'll come so hard for you --”</p><p>“Make it wet,” John’s fingers find his mouth again and Sherlock suckles them, greedily, licking and sucking the taste of his own body from John’s fingers, making them drip, wet strings of saliva as John pulls them out and wraps his wet hand around his cock, finally giving him the friction and contact he craves, making him moan with pleasure.</p><p>John strokes him firmly but slowly, in rolling counterpoint to the slide and push of his cock. John’s got himself tightly under control, doling out his pleasure one sparking shiver at a time. It’s just on the edge of what he needs to tip over into orgasm, the torment of it unbearable and delicious at the same time, the tension winding tighter and tighter around his spine as John tortures him, bringing him to the very brink again before easing away, denying him release.</p><p>“I can feel how close you are,” John murmurs as Sherlock whimpers, making small, unheeding animal sounds of ecstasy and frustration. “I can feel how much you need it, how every nerve in your body is aching and straining. I love you like this, when you’re so close to coming that there’s nothing else left of you except how you feel when I fuck you.”</p><p>Sherlock cries out as his hips and spine flex and push in ancient instinctive rhythm, meeting each one of John’s thrusts. He’s pinned helplessly in between the two axis points of their bodies as John pleasures him, his cock pistoning into him and the slick friction of his hand stroking his prick, each push and pull and thrust bringing him close, <em>ohgodsofuckingclose</em> but it’s just barely beyond his reach, his body is dissolving into agonizing need, John is torturing him, he’s killing him, leaving nothing left except the bright outline of his body, burned into hard pavement under the brilliant sun of an atomic bomb --</p><p>“You’re mine,” John rasps, his voice a bed of sharp black gravel. “Mine for whatever I want, whenever I want. I’m your owner, I’m your master. Say it.”</p><p>“You’re my master,” Sherlock moans, meaning it, meaning every word, willing to surrender every cell of his body to John for eternity if it means John will end this torture and let him come.</p><p>“Say my name, slut. Say your master’s name.”</p><p>“John,” he breathes. “Oh God, John, I’m so close, please, I’m so close.”</p><p>John bites him, sucking a mark at the junction of his neck and shoulder. “Ask me to let you come,” he growls into his skin.</p><p>“Let me come,” Sherlock is truly begging now, destroyed, a million miles beyond shame. “I’ve been so good for you, I’ve done everything you want, please, Oh God, <em>please</em> let me come.”</p><p>John tightens his grip on his cock at the same time as he shifts his weight, pushing Sherlock into a half-sprawl, nerves on his back howling anew as John’s weight presses down on him, fucking him hard and deep now as Sherlock struggles to thrust against his fist, half trapped, barely able to breathe as John’s other hand grabs at his head, shoving him hard against the mattress, taking him hard and fast now, relentless --</p><p>“Come for me,” he rasps, “that’s a good boy, good little cockslut whore, show me how hard I make you come.”</p><p>Sherlock’s orgasm surges and crests, the intensity of it bordering on agony, a silent flash of brilliant white light that burns through him, pain and pleasure transforming into shards of glittering crystal slicing into every nerve ending. He’s unable to keep himself from crying out, sharp guttural noises torn from this throat as John fucks him expertly through it, steady strokes across his prostate making his climax lengthen and deepen, transmuting sharp-edged carnal ecstasy into something deeper and sweeter, oxytocin and dopamine flowing like honey through his veins.</p><p>“Oh, so fucking beautiful,” John rasps, “you’re so fucking beautiful when you come, you feel so good on my cock, God, I love fucking you, I’m gonna come in you so hard, fill you up so full, I’m gonna breed you, make you <em>drip</em> with it --”</p><p>John’s hips snap hard, then stutter as he moans against Sherlock’s back, his cock twitching and pulsing as he comes.. “Oh fuck, oh God, that’s just -- ohhh.” Another wave of orgasm hits him as he thrusts deep one last time, making a low, pained noise as he shivers, then stills.</p><p>They both lie still, clutching each other, absolutely wrecked, their breathing harsh and loud in the now quiet room. John groans as he pulls out of him, leaving Sherlock with a fleeting sense of emptiness as the familiar gush of hot wetness spills onto his thighs.</p><p>Part of him already wants to do it all again.</p><p>“Gorgeous creature,” John sighs fonder now, more familiar, as the dark and beastly part of him recedes back into shadows, to wait patiently there until the next time John summons him forth. “Are you thirsty, pet?”</p><p>Sherlock nods in the affirmative, not yet trusting himself to speak.</p><p>John reaches for the forgotten water bottle and uncaps it, brings it to Sherlock’s lips. Sherlock drinks, and John takes a swallow as well before capping it and turning to set it on the bedside table. “Hey,” he murmurs, smoothing the sweaty hair from Sherlock’s forehead. “How are you feeling?”</p><p>“Mmmph,” Sherlock answers. He’s wrung out, utterly exhausted, but he tries to make it sound like a <em>positive</em> grunt, with a rising inflection. </p><p>John breathes a chuckle, pressing a kiss to his shoulder before rolling away, tucking himself back into his jeans before rising from the bed. When John moves away from him, the cool air of the room hits Sherlock inflamed and abraded skin anew, making him gasp in surprise at the pain.</p><p>“Oh <em>shit</em>,” he gasps, before he can stop himself. </p><p>“Oh shit indeed,” John says as he stands over Sherlock, regarding his handiwork, and though there is care in his voice, he also sounds… satisfied, deeply sated and almost proud of himself. “No blood, no split skin, but you’re going to look like a sunset over Talisker Bay by morning. Do you think you could get up for a bath?"</p><p>Sherlock groans at the very thought.</p><p>“That’s okay. I’ll go get some cool towels and ice, see if we have any juice. Are all right by yourself for a moment?”</p><p>Sherlock groans again this time with a nod, and it’s true, despite the pain he feels marvelous with no sub drop on the horizon. He’s well and truly serene, well-disciplined and savagely fucked and thoroughly adored, his brain on blissful cruise control as it travels a motorway paved with endorphins and dopamine and oxytocin.</p><p>“Maybe some paracetamol as well,” John adds, half to himself. “Back in a tick.”</p><p>Sherlock doesn’t find out if John actually comes back in a tick or not, because despite or perhaps because of his pain, he’s deeply and truly asleep long before John returns from the kitchen.</p><p>***</p><p>Sherlock drowses for a time, waking unexpectedly to full dark and an empty bed.</p><p> John cleaned him up a bit and covered him with the sheet as he slept; the fine cotton scrapes across his skin as he shifts slightly. The bright stinging burn has receded, but he can already tell by the ache under his skin that the bruising is going to be spectacular. He turns his head, carefully, and sees John is sitting in the side chair, looking out the window. He hasn't changed his clothes; he's still half dressed, barechested with his jeans on. </p><p>He looks smaller than he usually does to Sherlock, and older.</p><p>“What’s wrong?” Sherlock asks, his voice a sleepy, raspy croak.</p><p>John is quiet for a moment, considering.</p><p>“I worry, sometimes.” His words are quiet, raw-edged and honest.</p><p>“About what?” Sherlock asks, though he already knows.</p><p>John shifts in the chair, scrubs fingers through his messy hair.</p><p>“About going too far, I guess. About getting lost in the moment, and crossing some line I can’t even see.” He sighs, a sad lost sound that pains Sherlock’s heart. “About doing something to you I regret, something I can’t take back.”</p><p>This happens sometimes, when this thing between them gets especially intense, goes to that much deeper and scarier place. The usual script gets flipped and instead of Sherlock, John is the one who gets hit with a drop after. Interestingly, it seems to happen when Sherlock <em>doesn’t</em> drop, when he feels good, doesn’t have a blank space open in him that John needs to fill with caring and kisses and reassurance.</p><p>Sherlock hates when this happens, not because he is averse to reassuring or caring for John, nothing could be further from the truth. He just hates that someone as good and loving and giving as John would ever feel badly about himself, about anything, ever.</p><p>And the words John deserves to hear don’t always come easily to Sherlock, especially in this state.</p><p>His collar is still on, he’s still got one point seven- five of his two feet planted firmly in subspace where he generally only speaks when spoken to -- but if there was ever a time to bend the rules and try to find a right word or two to soothe John’s fears, well, this is definitely it.</p><p>“I don’t worry about you,” Sherlock tells him. “I know you. And I trust you, John. Completely.”</p><p>“I know you do,” John says, but even in the low light Sherlock can see the sadness still in his eyes.</p><p>Not quite sure what to say, his brain still not fully back online, Sherlock keeps it simple, goes with the strongest and clearest feeling in his heart.</p><p>“You make me happy, John. Very happy. Do you know that? I want you to know that.”</p><p>John gives him a smile, small but genuine.</p><p>“Thank you, love. You make me very happy as well.”</p><p>“Can I tell you what would make me happy right now?” Sherlock asks.</p><p>“What’s that?”</p><p>Words are sometimes hard to come by, but Sherlock can give him the comfort of his body, of physical closeness that comes much easier than talking, sometimes, for both of them. “I would like it if you came back to bed. I miss you.”</p><p>“Of course, pet.” John comes back to bed, shucking off his jeans and pants before sliding his legs under the covers, sitting up with his back against the headboard. “Are you thirsty?”</p><p>“Yes, please.”</p><p>John picks up the water bottle, unscrews the cap, carefully holds the water bottle so Sherlock can drink his fill. He takes the water back and returns it to the bedside table before carefully shepherding Sherlock towards him, mindful of his state as he arranges him so his head is resting on John’s thigh. </p><p>John’s strong warm fingers find his hair, weave gently through sweat-damp curls.</p><p>“I love you so much,” John says quietly, “and I love what we do, when we’re doing it. I just don’t always like myself much, after.”</p><p>“I know how that feels,” Sherlock tells him. “You know that I do. But there’s no objective reason you should feel badly. You’ve never done anything with me, or to me, without my enthusiastic consent. You never would.”</p><p>“Sherlock, I beat the <em>shit</em> out of you tonight.”</p><p>“I know,” Sherlock says. “I was there.” </p><p>“How can I not feel badly about that?”</p><p>“Well, in case you didn’t know, I had a <em>great</em> time.” Sherlock is gently teasing now, really bending the rules here but John laughs, just a little but it’s genuine and Sherlock is glad to hear it. He carefully turns his head to look up at John, rolling partially onto his back, ignoring the bright flares of pain up and down his spine. “And I could have stopped you at any moment if I decided I wasn’t having a great time.”</p><p>“It’s not if you <em>could</em> have that worries me. It’s if you <em>would</em> have.”</p><p>“If I thought you were going too far, I would have.”</p><p>“Do you have a “too far” setting, Sherlock? Because I’m not entirely sure you do.”</p><p><em>Do you?</em> Sherlock wonders fleetingly, and finds that he’s not at all certain John does. He decides to file that question away for a later, less fraught moment.</p><p>“You just haven’t found it yet,” is what he says aloud. “When you do, I promise you will be the first to know.”</p><p>“I’m serious, Sherlock.”</p><p>“So am I.”</p><p>The room is quiet for several minutes. John is still awake, still thinking as he plays with Sherlock’s hair. It’s soothing, it’s hypnotic, and Sherlock very much wants to go to sleep in John’s lap like a pampered cat but there’s something he needs to ask first, something he very much needs to know.</p><p>“John.”</p><p>“Hmm?”</p><p>“Do you want to stop?”</p><p>John’s fingers still for a moment as he considers.</p><p>“No,” he says, emphatic, and Sherlock believes him. “No, I don’t. Do you?”</p><p>Sherlock doesn’t need time to think. “No. I don’t want you to feel badly, I truly don’t, but I don’t want to give this up.”</p><p>John’s fingers resume their gentle travels. “Then we won’t.” </p><p>Sherlock feels like there’s something else he wants to say, something to ease John’s worries and explain to him how perfect and brilliant everything is when they’re like this, but John’s fingers are warm and gentle and Sherlock’s body is so exhausted and his mind is still slow and placid and he just can’t put the words together to say what he --</p><p>“I know, pet.” John’s voice is deep and rough with tiredness, but so full of love, wrapping around Sherlock like the warmest, softest blanket. “It’s all right. I’m all right. Go back to sleep.”</p><p>***</p><p>When Sherlock wakes up in the morning, at first he can’t quite remember what happened to him.</p><p>Because <em>oh my fuck</em>, every single part of him hurts, hurts like that time in Malta when he was worked over by a low-level Mafia thug armed with severe OCD and a burlap bag of oranges, but at the same time he’s fairly certain they solved the tailor case without incident, and as consciousness comes trickling back in he realises he’s home, safe in his own bed, and John’s not here but he’s in the kitchen, Sherlock can smell cinnamon on toast, so what exactly happened to him last night to put him in this--</p><p>That’s about when he realises his collar is still on.</p><p>Ohhhhhhhh. <em>John</em> happened to him last night.</p><p>Then the recent memories come tumbling in, making him smile despite the fact that he can barely move, and Sherlock discovers that yes, even smiling hurts this morning.</p><p>He’s on his stomach, head turned to the side, neck at a funny angle. He tries to roll over, and every muscle in his back and legs (and shoulders, and arse, oh, <em>especially</em> his arse) decide to give him absolute holy hell all at once.</p><p>He really doesn’t know if he can move but he desperately needs to piss, and John will take care of him if he honestly can’t accomplish it, but Sherlock really and truly hates that so he wills his very angry muscles and bones to work just long himself to get to the toilet and back.</p><p>Sherlock groans every tortuous step of the way, and by the time he’s made it back to bed the racket has summoned John to the door of the bedroom. He’s small and mild and adorable this morning, freshly showered and shaved, reading glasses from Poundland tucked into the neck of his blue and gray jumper.</p><p>“Good morning, beautiful,” he murmurs fondly.</p><p> Sherlock groans again in response.</p><p>John reaches down, pulls away the sheet covering Sherlock’s back. He sucks a quick burst of air through his teeth at the sight, and going by that reaction Sherlock knows the evidence of last night’s encounter must be something truly impressive to behold. </p><p>“You’re staying in bed today,” John decides. “I’ll bring you tea and toast and some ice.”</p><p>He bends to kiss the edge of Sherlock’s ear, bringing his fingers to the silver buckle of his collar.</p><p><em>I’m not ready to give it up,</em> Sherlock realises. </p><p>And he’s not at all sure when he will be ready.</p><p>Sherlock reaches up, wincing and gasping just slightly at the cacophony of pain the movement brings, as he wraps his hand around John’s wrist, stilling him.</p><p>He shakes his head, minutely, not opening his eyes.</p><p>“<em>Please</em>,” he half-mumbles, half-whispers into the pillow.</p><p>After a moment of surprise John chuckles, and despite the mildness of his demeanour this morning, there’s an undeniable undercurrent of something delicious in the sound.</p><p>“As you wish,” he murmurs, low and fond. He picks up the leash where it lay forgotten on the floor, wrapping it around the steel leg of the bedframe before slipping the end through the looped handle and clicking it back onto the D-ring of Sherlock’s collar. He smooths tangled curls, kisses the top of his head with an affection that borders on reverence.</p><p>“Rest now, pet,” John murmurs.</p><p>As ever, Sherlock obeys.</p>
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